Lost slipper by Charles Carr

Lost slipper

A streetlamp reflects
on the surface of the river,
like a nightlight in a hallway,
safe and soothing,
the sound of water,
a memory far earlier
than fear.
The bridge I drive over
begins with a concrete bench,
a front row seat
to the widest screen
imaginable,
a man behind
the considerable time
it has taken him
to beard into a mask
waits like a squirrel
in a rare moment
of clarity for the traffic
to pass before he crosses
the street
but never too fast
for the limp of matted fur
at the end of the leash
he holds like a rope
at the mouth of a hole
in case he falls any further
and the sun doesn’t rise
so much as choke up,
the way I still can’t speak,
the lump in my throat,
how that small dog
seemed to smile
and breathed deep.